In Hell, With You
by ReoPlusOne
Summary: Arthur and Francis are both in Hell. But at least they're together. WWI era, mentions of the atrocities of WWI. Light FrUK.


"When we are out of here, Angleterre," France started with a loud, rasping wheeze, "I am going to take you to dinner."

"_Take me to dinner_," England echoed with a scoff, "You can't even get out of bed, man. You piss in a pan."

"But, but later. When the war is over." He replied, insistently.

Neither of them said what they were thinking: that the war probably would never be over, or at least when it was, it would be because they were either prisoners of war to Germany, or dead men.

It was late 1917; so of course no one thought it would end. The young soldiers staring up at the perfect French night sky watching the German artillery fire in the distance one by one lost their faith in a merciful God. Too many had lost a brother, a son, a father in the gore and destruction to believe otherwise. The young men went first, recklessly running into no man's land believing themselves to be invincible and ending up with some leg wound, slowly bleeding to death amongst the ruin. Almost none of them ended up in the soft, dirty but safe glow of the hospital tent, where Francis was. He'd been caught up in a cloud of mustard gas, his own leg too injured to allow him to stand above it and run. Arthur was the one reason it hadn't taken his life, he'd stupidly run into it himself and dragged him out over his shoulder, and while Arthur's wounds had healed quickly, Francis had been thoroughly blinded, at least for some time. And when he continued to insist that he would take Arthur out to dinner 'when the war was over', Arthur simply pat his hand and said yes, satisfying the Frenchman enough to at least get him to shut up. For a moment.

"I tell you what I tell you now," He said, as though he was choking back tears, as though his scarred eyes were even capable of producing tears, "Because I will be meeting God in person here, soon."

"You and your _God_," Arthur rolled his eyes. A Catholic God. A merciful God. Arthur, like his men, lacked the energy to believe much any more.

"I will see Jeanne again," Francis sobbed, and Arthur rolled his eyes. "And Napoleon, and all of my kings -"

"I thought you hated your kings. You _killed _one of them."

"My track record is still better, you killed two of yours."

"Whatever you say, dying man. What is it?"

"Let my last words be this, my lord," Francis breathed, "Have the mercy to end this misery once and for all..." And he rasped and coughed and really made quite the spectacle of it, and Arthur was just about to hear it when the shells outside screamed, as did the soldiers shortly after, and he was called to duty.

Arthur came to visit a few days later, rushing past the nurses and taking his seat at Francis' bedside. Francis turned to look at him, the twin spots of dried blood on his bandages not nearly an adequate substitute for smiling blues that usually sat there. Yet somehow he thought Francis could see him then more than ever, especially so when he grabbed Arthur's hand and asked, "What is wrong? You're shaking."

"Saw a man get shot," Arthur said, trembling even in his voice.

"Haven't we all?" Francis asked with a laugh.

"He just wouldn't go, he was a child. He was just a _child_, Francis."

"Mm?"

"And he wouldn't _go_! He got to the top of the ladder and he saw the damn Germans coming and - and he just got shellshocked, is all. And we told him to go, but he wouldn't, and the officer, the officer shot him dead. Called him a coward."

It baffled France sometimes, how Arthur's mind picked and chose which little incidents of war and life to break down over. How a prime minister could come and go without any trouble but he would weep over the grave of a queen for centuries after her death. How he could see hundreds of thousands of dead men piled up in ditches but one boy could get him this upset. Francis supposed that Arthur simply worked that way, that everything piled up until one insignificant little thing set him off. He ended up curled half on top of Francis on the cot, weeping and whispering 'he was no more a coward than I am' against the pillow. Francis did not have the heart to say 'I love you' and make the whole mix more complicated.

Though the nurses usually had a very strict policy against sharing a cot, it only took one look at the dirty, bagged eyes, finally closed after so many days wide and awake to the horrors of the trenches, to know that he needed it as well.

They would regret it within a day's time, because after that night Arthur felt perfectly bold enough to come visit Francis whenever he got a moment.

"Oh come on now, quit your crying," Arthur grumbled as Francis grit his teeth through a bandage change. "Your feet are _dry_, for God's sake!"

"Go to _Hell _Arthur," Francis groaned, the nurse patting his arm with an apology.

"Already there, Francis," Arthur laughed like a madman, "In Hell with you."

It would be years before Francis would gather up the courage to show up at England's house, dressed up and holding a bouquet. At Arthur's surprised response he put on his best smile. "I promised you a dinner, did I not? Come, I've something to tell you."


End file.
